


A Typical Evening In for SHIELD Agents

by Meatball42



Series: Rare Pairs [41]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Caretaking, Established Relationship, F/F, Head Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 13:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8404225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/pseuds/Meatball42
Summary: Maria gets out of Medical and her girlfriend makes her dinner. It’s a little weird.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [csichick_2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csichick_2/gifts).



“Agent Boesche, I am not finished speaking.”

Natasha pours another dash of dressing over the salad and tosses it. As an exercise, she tries to keep her expression clear while Maria reams out the senior agent.

“I didn’t say you were derelict of duty. What you are is unwilling to take legitimate criticism from anyone beneath you in rank, so you’re going to take it from me. You acted without reasonable cause, you led your team in without sufficient intel, and you failed to communicate with headquarters, which could have stopped this entire incident at its start. You are not derelict of duty, Agent Boesche, you are an idiot.”

Natasha cracks. She doubles over the salad bowl, shaking silently. A few drops of vinaigrette land on the countertop.

“As of now, you’re on suspension until a disciplinary committee can be convened to review the case. That means you do not set foot on base, you do not issue orders to your team, and you absolutely. Do. Not. Attempt to contact my office. We will contact you. Am I understood, Agent?”

Natasha wipes under her eyes in case her makeup smeared. She brings the salad to the kitchen table and sets it among the other dishes, then turns the lights down low.

“Good night.”

Maria is rubbing at her forehead when Natasha appears in the doorway. One wall of their lounge is painted slate gray, so that video communications can be taken care of at home without making it obvious they’re not at SHIELD. Maria has sort of ruined the illusion by sitting in the armchair of a thousand cushions rather than the straight-backed chair acquired for that purpose, but tonight, Natasha doesn’t blame her.

“Squashed, like grape?”

Maria glares at her through slitted eyes. “We need to get you better movie references.”

“It fits,” Natasha protests, dramatically offended. “He should have admitted he was wrong and taken the punishment, but he went half-way and fought you.”

“The other safe option, in Mr. Miyagi’s metaphor, would have him blustering through declaring that his junior agents were reporting wrong and the inquisition lead had a grudge against him.”

Natasha shrugs while Maria closes her laptop and sets it aside, then starts taking off her multiple blankets. “So you know ancient American movies better than me. Be proud.” She crosses the room in a moment and helps Maria leverage out of the chair.

They lurch toward the kitchen, hampered by the cast covering Maria’s leg up to the thigh, and the way her head keeps spinning and sending her in a different direction. Natasha lowers Maria into the chair that she’s positioned at the ready and pushes it in to the table. “My lady,” she says with a flourish.

Maria gives her a nasty look. “I’m not a baby,” she grumbles.

Natasha takes her seat across the table. “I know,” she replies warmly. “You’re an ass-kicker, even with a cracked tibia and a concussion. I bet Boesch is crying into his lean cuisine right now. Like Oprah.”

Maria cringes in the middle of plating herself some sandwiches and salad. “That’s one of those teenager things, right?”

“You’d like Cards Against Humanity. We can have Clint and Phil over for dinner and game night sometime, it’ll be a blast.”

“Who was in charge of your cultural fluency modules?”

“Jasper.” Natasha pulls a leg up onto her chair and rests her cheek on her knee. “But I kept going myself. Americans are hilarious.”

Maria picks at her food, losing track of the conversation. Her head is swimming, but she’s at home; the apartment smells right, in a way that is deeply satisfying to her brain. The lights are dim enough to to exacerbate her headache, hiding from view the pristine counters and neutrally painted walls of the kitchen.

They’d decorated the apartment together when they moved in two years ago. Maria’s preference for clean lines and no clutter matched up just fine with Natasha’s austere decorating sense and tendency toward muted colors. Maria remembers how moving in together felt like the final piece slipping into place, their home fitting them the way they fit each other.

The fact that they know each other so well, that they usually fit so effortlessly and comfortably, is what makes it so irritating when Natasha occasionally feels the need to play games.

“How’s your head?”

Maria sets her fork down and stares Natasha down across the table. “You know how my head is,” she says, calm and crisp and not at all accepting the gentle smile Natasha wears so easily.

“It’s still nice to ask.”

“You can tell how bad my headache is, whether my spatial disorientation is acting up, from my body language and my facial expressions. You normally don’t hesitate to utilize these methods instead of making inane conversation.” Natasha looks down at her dinner, which is also out of character. “Natasha, what are you doing?”

Thin fingers, nails painted red- and how did Maria miss that? This concussion must be worse than she thought- fiddle with a shiny water glass that Maria has never seen in their house before. “I just wanted you to have a nice evening.”

Maria frowns, reanalyzing the afternoon at top speed. “You’ve been wearing a persona since I got out of medical. I don’t need babying, Natasha.”

Her lover looks up, and finally, there’s a hint of cold steel in Natasha’s expression. “You could have died today.”

“I didn’t. Lang cleared us.”

“Barely.” Natasha’s gaze has become focused and emotionless, and Maria can sink back into her chair. She takes another bite of her sandwich, feeling a resurgence of appetite. Natasha narrows her eyes slightly, obviously taking in the change in demeanor.

This is the way they’re meant to work, Maria thinks.

“I just wanted you to be able to relax,” Natasha admits at last. “Not think about work.”

Maria snorts. “Does that sound like me?” she says, then swallows her food.

Even with the lights down low and her eyesight wavering, Maria can see the moment Natasha’s carefully slack posture straightens, her back no longer touching the chair. It’s sad, that what would be markers of physical tension in most people are what make Natasha the most comfortable, but a lot of life is sad. Maria has learned to accept things and people as they are and move forward, rather than try to change things that cannot change.

“You always say you wish I would make dinner,” Natasha states. It’s a challenge, but her tone is fit for small talk. Maria suppresses a smile.

“And I appreciate it,” she says with a nod that makes her head throb. “I love it when you do things for me. I love it because you’re the one doing it. I don’t want you to put on a persona to make me feel better.”

There’s not a trace of perfect-girlfriend Natasha now. Off-duty Black Widow Natasha, the most ‘normal’ Natasha can get and be herself, nods in acceptance of Maria’s request.

Then she quirks her lips up, just at the corners, and there’s the Natasha that Maria fell in love with. She says, more monotone than previously, “I wasn’t kidding about having Clint and Phil over for game night.”

Maria sighs. Back to normal, then.


End file.
